Untitled
by OhSweetRedundancy
Summary: Castiel is a photographer who aspires to do something bigger someday; Dean is a journalist who can manipulate ordinary words into something otherworldly. So when Castiel asks his least favorite person in the office to help him with a surely career-rocketing project, Dean agrees. However, a new, greater challenge arises as they stumble across something they shouldn't have.
1. Chapter 1

_**Summary**__: __Castiel is a photographer who aspires to work for National Geographic someday; Dean is a journalist who can manipulate ordinary words into something otherworldly. So when Castiel asks his least favorite person in the office to help him with a surely career-rocketing project, Dean agrees. However, a new, greater challenge arises as they stumble across something they shouldn't have._

_**A/N: **__Hey, guys! So here's the story of Castiel the photographer and Dean the journalist; I'm kind of really excited about this story, so I'm hoping it turns out like I'm intending._

_I should note that I'm unsure if this could possibly happen in the wonderful world of journalism (as in how the two got the project), so we'll just pretend it does. Shh!_

_Please read and review!_

_Thank you!_

_**Disclaimer: **Sadly, I don't own Supernatural.  
_

A set of cold eyes surveyed the room silently.

They noticed car memorabilia placed meticulously throughout the room; papers creating a haphazard mountain range on the desk; a half-drank, long cold cup of coffee sitting patiently on the edge of the desk; a wrapper to what appeared to be a fast food burger finding the coffee to be its company, and it was most likely the scribbling man's breakfast; and a leather coat finding its place on a long hidden, but very utilized, chair. Yet the intruding eyes were merely scratching the surface. The occupant of the office, who was still marking away furiously at his notebook, had promised his fellow coworkers on numerous occasions that he would finally clean his disastrous office, but every time he managed to find a new lead that "beckoned" to him or a piece that "was dying to be finished" or some prior engagement he had to attend. He had vowed earlier on that day that he would attempt to minimize the heaping mounds on his desk, yet he was sitting there, brainstorming for a new article that was "waiting to write itself".

The man let out yet another exasperated sigh as his pen resigned to leaving him with a mere indented trail; the ink had run out. That left him searching for yet another hopefully fresh pen. The possessor of those eyes pondered at what he could be thinking. Maybe he could be contemplating buying new pens, not like he probably didn't have enough hiding somewhere. And that would have brought him back to the full circle of cleaning that catastrophic work space.

Those eyes continued watching, now almost curiously.

The man seemed more than reluctant to begin the daring and hazardous task of taming his office, so it seemed he decided to scour his desk for another pen. He nudged documents around carelessly, tossed folders to the floor (which he would probably claim to be a temporary home for them, but then leave them there), and searched surprisingly thoroughly. Then the eyes noticed the man freeze and then turn his attention to them. The pen seemed to be able to wait.

"Mr. Novak," he began, settling back into his chair and folding his hands together. His emerald eyes settled questioningly on the figure in his door. "What sort of reason graces me with your presence?"

Mr. Novak, Castiel, left his spot at the door and approached the desk rather slowly. Castiel was usually blunt with him, preferring not to have to deal with this man's so-called humorous jokes and jabs. In all honesty, he usually found them crude and tasteless, but that was when he "took the time to understand them". Just like he found the person sitting arrogantly behind the desk. Yet he had a job that he needed to do, an opportunity that he couldn't refuse, and this crude, tasteless, impossible to understand, arrogant man was exactly who he needed to be able to get it done and done well.

So he drew in a rather large breath and began.

"Do you have anything planned over the week of July eleventh through the eighteenth, Dean?" he asked, his dark blue eyes turned icy with slight irritation, and his hair seemed to reflect that. His locks poked wildly in each direction as if electricity were running between them. Or as if he had just gotten out of bed. His nervous habit of running his hand through his hair probably didn't help much, either. Speaking of which, Castiel pulled the hand he found running amok through his hair and returned it limply to his side.

"Well, Cassie, I'm going to sleep," Dean began with a grin, "and then I'm probably going to find a nice-" His green eyes were dancing happily, and "Cassie" couldn't help but note his sudden desire for a spoon. Or an ice cream scooper. Or any other object that could be used for gouging.

"No," he interrupted, his voice easily hiding his sudden violent urge out of practice. "I'm looking for a journalist to cover an event with me. You would be the best I can get." Unfortunately.

"I'm flattered, Castiel, but you do realize that's late for the Fourth of July by about a week?" Dean said as he discovered a pen hidden under a clipped packet. He flipped the cap off and scribbled for a moment, a brief, but loud, laugh of success escaping him as it worked.

Castiel merely ignored the small distraction and begrudgingly moved the conversation forward; he noted that Dean's jokes were, as he would say, "dumbed down".

"Not the Fourth of July. Bastille Day. It's on July fourteenth. It's a French holiday. I'm working on a collaboration with other photographers and journalists to document and share large national holidays of various countries." And he, a photographer, needed a journalist, Dean Winchester, to create a masterpiece on none other than that French holiday.

"So you're telling me that we're going to have to go to France?" Dean's eyes narrowed interrogatively at Castiel, who gave no outward signs of reaction. Instead, he responded curtly.

"That's where Bastille Day is, and it'd be your job to write about it." Castiel remained just as stoic save his own eyes, which merely grew more frigid.

"Just to let you know, I don't exactly speak French." Their narrowness challenged those of a snake's.

"I have something worked out." Antarctica suddenly became comparable to the Sahara.

"Okay, talk."

And so green followed by blue gave up arms for an alliance of sorts.

And so neither was aware of what they were getting themselves into.

_xxxxx_

If Castiel were completely honest with himself, he would say that he admired his new partner no matter how annoying he found him. If Castiel were to describe Dean Winchester, he would confess through a state of fluster, reluctance, and awe that although Dean was bigheaded, he knew how to weave the right words together to create something wonderful. If magic existed somewhere on the large rock they lived on, then he would say it was in Dean's work. Castiel would be fooling himself if he said he didn't want Winchester's vivid descriptions and intriguing insights bringing life to his photographs. The writing and the pictures were what he needed to finally get his name known, and, hey, maybe even Dean would benefit in the same manner. Just as long as no one stepped on anyone's toes, he was sure they'd be fine.

With those thoughts resting in his mind, the first thing Castiel did when he entered his apartment was toss his collar-like tie onto the dinner table. He then moved to discarding his damp overcoat unceremoniously onto its typical chair, and he continued on toward the kitchen. The man absentmindedly noted the still present rain thundering just outside the window and the dozing gaze of his beloved cat Meg. He couldn't help but feel a small bubble of relief as the wave grew louder; he made it back in time.

He fetched a pot to boil water in, filled it, and placed it on the stove to heat. Castiel's thoughts were starting to fall back to earlier in his day when he heard yet another presence enter the room. The newcomer was likely his older brother, who had decided that he owed a visit. Not that Castiel minded, that is; he actually enjoyed his brother's lighthearted company.

"Would you like anything, Gabriel?" Castiel asked as he turned toward his brother, who was perusing through a tiny stack of envelopes on the counter. Gabriel faced his brother slowly, they both had enough time to waste, and smiled delightedly.

He pondered the question for a moment before replying, "You have hot chocolate?"

Castiel gave a small, knowing grin and a nod as he made for the cupboards. "How was the road up?"

"It was long," Gabriel complained, his voice rising in pitch. "I was about ready to turn around halfway here."

A snort emerged from the figure buried in the cupboard. "Yes, but the trip would have been then same length nonetheless." He withdrew with the prize in hand: a box of Swiss Miss hot chocolate.

"It would've spared me the trip back, Cassie," Gabriel pointed out with a teasing gleam in his eyes. Castiel couldn't help but notice the difference between Gabriel and Dean using that nickname for him; he had essentially grown up on Gabriel calling him "Cassie", so it was a name of endearment; Dean, on the other hand, used that name almost mockingly; no one else really even called him by that. It seemed interesting to him how the same name can feel utterly different when used by two different people. He retrieved two larger mugs with that new thought lingering in his mind.

"And, naturally, the desire to see your younger brother overshadowed that treacherous boredom," Castiel teased and peered into the pot. The water wasn't boiling yet. He turned back to his brother.

"Naturally," Gabriel repeated with a wide, toothy grin. "How was work?"

"It was," Castiel paused for a moment, eyes searching his new, shiny toaster for a fitting word, "decent." Considering. "The final details for the project I told you about are being sorted out."

Gabriel nodded in understanding, pursing his lips rather tightly. He watched as his drying younger brother remembered the hot chocolate in the works, bustling around to prepare those waiting mugs and mix for the delectable, warm, chocolaty goodness. It was odd times like these where he felt a weird mix of pity and happiness for his younger brother.

_xxxxx_

Castiel set his coffee cup hastily on his desk, his khaki overcoat already discarded on a hook hanging merrily on the wall, and spun back around to face his boss. His hair was just as chaotic as the previous day, as was becoming the trend with him; he woke up late that morning due to his troublemaker brother, so he was stuck with bedhead. In all honesty, however, he was happy to have spent a few more minutes in dream world; he was busy conjuring precious moments whether they be fireworks, parents chasing their kids around the park, lovers embracing in the festivities, or even the history of Paris. This would also be related to why he loved his job; he loved capturing those real moments of beauty. "I assure you, Mr. Singer, that this will not happen again," Castiel stated with a regretful expression etched into the lines of his face. His lips parted to begin again, but he was interrupted.

"I know, idgit," Mr. Singer replied with resigned sigh. "That's not what I wanted to talk about, though."

Castiel eyed him curiously, and his boss continued on.

"You're taking up the assignment, right?"

The photographer nodded. "Yes, and I've talked to Winchester as well. He's in."

"Alright, then," Singer stated; Castiel wasn't able to identify the tone that hid in his voice, but he let it go. "I'll send you and Dean the final details today."

Castiel nodded and thanked him as his boss left. He then turned to his not-so-long forgotten, but ever needed, cup of coffee. That black elixir would surely be what would give him that final waking boost. And it was working.

After a rather generous sip, Castiel seated himself to start his work of the day. It wasn't necessarily a field work day for him, but he enjoyed the calmness that usually fell on these office days. Then again, that was usual, and the calmness was suddenly dispelled by an all too familiar, brown coated man rounding into his office.

Castiel peered up at the intruder, setting his lips tightly together and tilting his head slightly. Although he said nothing, his expression was inquiring. Dean merely gave a meek smile before welcoming himself farther into the office and to the desk; then his expression turned serious.

"I figured that since we'll be, you know, working together that we should probably have a good heart to heart," Dean proposed carefully. Or at least it was for him. If Castiel were surprised at all, he didn't show it. Instead he nodded slowly, silently, thoughtfully, before inhaling sharply and replying.

"Fair enough." Castiel said and sipped at his coffee. He loved how that energy seemed to flow into him, and he was suddenly prepared for everything that would come his way. That is, at least, until the effects of the coffee wore off. He couldn't help but fleetingly ponder his likelihood of having a caffeine addiction – it took an ungodly amount to have an effect on him, and he doubted he could live without it – but he dismissed the idea quickly. There was no way.

However, Dean seemed to pick up on it.

"You always seem to have Garfield with you," he observed and gestured lazily to the orange cat that stared back from the cup, "or some other furry relative of his."

"I like coffee and animals," Castiel defended himself timidly, and then quickly retorted. "What about all of those cars in your office?"

Dean shrugged. His reply was simple in words and tone. "I like cars. It's a hobby."

"I can tell." Castiel's voice was unrevealing, yet it was noting. He retreated behind his dearly loved Garfield again, and he took another drink of his coffee.

"I also like pie." Dean seemed to offer that information more than willingly and with a small grin. "It's probably one of the greatest things on Earth."

"Pie?" A hint of amusement leaked into Castiel's voice as he raised an eyebrow.

"Hey, coffee bean, we're in a judging-free zone."

"Right."

It was a pretty decent start to their little "heart to heart"; maybe this talk and maybe this project wouldn't be so bad after all.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N (for those who read them): **__Hey, guys! How have you all been?_

_I'm also hoping for input on pace. Is it going too fast? Too slow? Just right? Thoughts? Also, I would love thoughts, inputs, critiques, and anything like that on anything else as well! On that note, I'm also intending on making chapters longer as the story progresses and things pick up; they're kind of short right now._

_So please review, and thank you to those who did._

_Also, before I forget, I should warn you that updates will be very sporadic; I'm going to be getting them up when I can. I promise. My summer's kind of busy (I kind of partially have a life for once! Yay!), so I apologize for that. Once the academic year starts, though, I'm hoping that I'll be able to establish some sort of update routine._

_**Disclaimer:**__ I, OhSweetRedundancy, own nothing aside from the computer from which I am typing this._

_On to the story now (finally)?_

Castiel peered down at his freshly replenished cup of coffee (he had, once again, lost count of how many he had actually drunk). He watched the steam roll out of the holes, the small stream of vapors holding very much the smell of coffee. By now he was wide awake, nodding and replying to Dean's incessant prattling; they were still having that discussion that Dean suggested. If Castiel were to be honest with himself, though, he would say that the story was a little interesting. A little.

"And that's how I got my beautiful baby," Dean concluded proudly with a wide, happy grin plastered on his face. A photograph was lying on the desk, which Castiel had been forced to admire on several instances, and Dean was on the edge of his seat.

Oh yeah, it had something to do with how he got his car. How they got to talking about Dean's car, Castiel wasn't sure, but it was the topic on which they happened to end their talk; Dean had work he needed to finish by the end of the day. Castiel hoped it was cleaning his office.

Once Dean left his office with half his morning, Castiel returned to his long neglected work.

_xxxxx_

As per usual, Castiel found himself in his apartment again, and his brother was snoring away loudly on the couch. Castiel watched him for a moment; Gabriel was sprawled out as much as one could be on a couch. His arm was draped off the edge, the other was slung up over the arm rest; his hair was wildly covering his drooling face; and his feet were all but thrown onto the couch as a second thought. Yet he was slumbering merrily.

As per usual, Castiel discarded his coat, shoes, and tie in their usual places before meandering to his bedroom to change. Meg was snoozing as well, although she was curled up at the foot of his bed. Her dark fur rose and fell with each breath, and Castiel fought the urge to stroke her. Instead, he stripped out of his work clothes and pulled on his lazy, at home attire: a white oversized t-shirt and a pair of large, but amazingly comfortable, grey sweatpants.

And as per usual, Castiel found himself searching the fridge for something to eat. There was leftover pizza from the day before last, some untouched hotdogs, and an assortment of sandwich meats and condiments. He settled on the pizza, pulling out a cold slice and nibbling on it. With that, his thoughts drifted elsewhere, from the impending trip to his cat to the forecast for the next week. He took another bite and turned a lazy head to footsteps entering the kitchen.

"Sleep well?" Castiel asked his disheveled brother. He merely grunted in response, only just woken up, and copied Castiel's earlier actions of scouring the fridge. This time, when he emerged, he was sinking his teeth into one of the hotdogs. The hotdog fell limp as the end was bitten off, much to waking Gabriel's amusement.

"Have you ever wondered what these things are made of?" he thought aloud, then glancing at his younger brother expectantly. He flipped the flopping dog toward him. "They're quite delicious, you know."

"You'd best not Google it, then," Castiel suggested through a mouthful of pizza. Gabriel's nose wrinkled for a moment as he stared contemplatively at the hot dog.

"That bad?"

"Depends on who you're talking to. For you, on second thought, you should be fine."

Gabriel searched Castiel's visage for any sign of malevolence, then shrugged and continued munching on the floppy meat mix. After a moment or two, the two had finished their food (Gabriel had also helped himself to another hotdog), and the hotdog muncher decided to press the conversation forward.

"How was work?" he questioned almost teasingly, settling against the counter and possessing a now satiated stomach – until dinner, that would be.

"Same old," Castiel supplied with a shrug.

"The way you talk about your job doesn't make you seem like you enjoy it all that much," Gabriel observed with a questioning head cock.

"But I do! It's just…" Castiel trailed off, and he didn't need to finish the sentence, either. Gabriel knew what his younger brother meant: he wanted to be doing something bigger with his photography. It was that brother bond. "How about The Roadhouse later tonight for dinner?" He would try turning the conversation in a different direction.

"You're paying," Gabriel teased, earning a small grin from his brother.

"Of course."

_xxxxx_

The brothers sank into a rare, yet comfortable, silence at the restaurant/bar. People were shouting around them, most of them heavily drunk as their alcoholic aromas wafted toward the duo. Yet they didn't mind; the food was phenomenal and the staff were great friends. Castiel was sure that he could even be called a regular, and Gabriel was even well known in the restaurant.

Castiel sank further into the cozy booth, relishing the familiar atmosphere. He was quickly pulled out of his reverie as the typical blonde haired, baby-faced woman stopped at their table. Her lips were pulled up in a happy smile, and her eyes were twinkling.

"Hello, you two," she greeted them, and her delight in seeing the eldest Novak brother wasn't very well masked. Her grin grew, and her eyes became even brighter in joy. However, her tone didn't reflect such emotion; instead, it was almost chastising. "And you need to stop by more even if to say a simple 'hello'."

"Yes, ma'am. Understood," Gabriel replied, and Castiel wasn't sure if his tone was teasing or reflecting some sort of fear. Maybe it was both. He did, however, know that he didn't wish to cross this woman's bad side.

"Good!" she chirped, suddenly completely happy, and she pulled out her pad and pencil. "Your usuals, I'm assuming?"

"What else?" Gabriel said with a just-as-happy smile.

"Yes. Thanks, Jo," Castiel said as well with a nod.

"Sounds good! Be warned, my mother's probably going spot Mo over here, and you know how she gets." Jo pointed with her pen over to Gabriel after she had jotted down their orders. With that warning lingering, she parted toward the kitchen, leaving the two alone again at the booth.

Castiel smirked.

"Don't say a word, Larry," Gabriel warned, his eyes narrowing.

Although Castiel didn't understand the names, did know to heed both warnings (although he did secretly wish that Ellen would spot Gabriel and give him a hard time). So with that, he broached on a new line of conversation.

"You know that bakery down the street?"

Gabriel stared at him inquisitively, again cocking his head at his younger brother.

"It's being shut down. Something about a failed inspection."

"And I liked that place," Gabriel whined, shoving his face exaggeratedly into his hands. "It was so good, and where else am I going to find wonderful pastries when I come down here? And what kind of tainted food have I been eating?" He gave an over-the-top sob.

"Well, you aren't dead yet –"

"Yet?"

" – and there are still plenty of other good bakeries around," Castiel continued despite Gabriel's indignant interjection.

"There's one not far from the post office that's really good," a third voice added, drawing the two brothers from their discussion (if it could be called that?). "Of course, you would know these things if you stopped by more, Gabriel."

Castiel would be able to watch Gabriel's stomach drop if he could, well, see his stomach. He could, however, feel the air around his brother grow almost scared and apprehensive; a few, hushed curse words escaped his lips as he peered up to the older version of Jo.

"Don't think I didn't hear that, and don't think you won't be adding to the jar," she scolded; her voice was much stronger and authoritative than her daughter's. It was one of the moments where Castiel was thankful he was her friend rather than enemy; she was also one of the only people who could strike genuine fear into his brother's heart, no matter how close they were.

"Sorry," Gabriel stammered sheepishly and glanced to something else within the bar.

"I'll forgive you after you pay the jar. Remember, a dollar for every word you uttered," Ellen said and crossed her arms, although her features were softening. She gave a resigned sigh. "How have you been?"

"I've been pretty good," Gabriel replied with a smile. He was happy that Ellen was done scolding him. "Not much has changed, really. How about you?"

"That isn't very much to go on," Ellen stated disappointedly, then noticed something further off in her bar. Castiel and Gabriel were going to ask about it, but were beaten by her painfully loud shout. "And you! Don't think you can sneak in here without me noticing!"

An apology sounded in the air, and they were joined by a middle-aged man and someone who made Castiel sink further into the booth. He mentally cursed the lack of menus (one, he didn't want to pay into that evil jar; and two, they didn't really even use the much missed objects in the restaurant). Instead, he decided to do the next most inconspicuous, person-shielding option available: he started to play with his napkin-and-silverware taco on the table. There was no way anyone could notice him. None.

And thusly, they began conversing, and Castiel thought he would be safe, but a Jo with two beers drew unneeded attention to the temporarily disregarded table. The taco had failed.

"Castiel!" Dean said loudly, and he surprisingly appeared shocked. Castiel wanted to wipe that expression of his face with the already shredded napkin in front of him, but he decided against it. He needed Dean in his entirety if his project were to succeed, and they needed to be in semi-good graces.

Semi-good was all, and Castiel felt he was there.

"Hello, Dean," he replied flatly, suddenly aware of all the eyes on the two of them. It made him rather anxious.

"So this is Dean?" Gabriel inserted himself into the short-lived conversation enthusiastically.

"That he is," Castiel stated in the same manner as before.

"You talk about me?" Dean asked, more shock visible. Castiel was sure he didn't know whether he should be pressing for more information or if he should be making a joke. Bless his little heart. Castiel settled on trying to help him along.

"I'm going to be working a project with you, so I'm sure talking about the project would include mentioning you," he supplied, giving a curt smile.

"Right."

"Jo? Would you mind seating the Winchesters? I'll be right over in a moment," Ellen requested. Castiel couldn't read her, which scared him, but he instead watched as Jo directed the two men over to another, distant table. Dean walked next to the man he entered with – who Castiel assumed was his father or something – although his demeanor seemed slightly different. He couldn't quite figure out why, though.

Ellen coughed, drawing Castiel's attention back to her. He knew, and he hated it, that he would be the victim of her tongue and motherliness this time. So he shrunk even farther into the booth and awaited the lecture.

Instead she gave him her signature mother look and said, "Listen to me, Castiel. I can already tell you don't like him, but he's a good person. Yes, he has his issues, but give him an honest chance. If not for me, then do it for your project and your career."

Gabriel was obviously miffed that his baby brother hadn't received more of a tongue lashing (he would later say that he, Gabriel, would have had a much harsher one), and then he continued to mumble about the unfairness of being an older sibling. Castiel was left nodding and pondering her words as she parted to speak with the mentioned Winchester and his possible father.

He knew Dean the journalist, Dean the coworker. Did he really know Dean the person?

However, if he were going to give Dean an "honest chance", it was going to be for the project.

It was with those thoughts, those questions, and incoming dilemmas that their food arrived. He was thankful for it, too.

_xxxxx_

Days passed, and Castiel was trying. If it weren't for those jokes, that talking, those innuendoes, and Dean's outlook, then he was sure that he would be able to semi-befriend him. But they continued to come, just as the date of their departure. Three weeks was becoming two weeks, and the days were scooting by more and more rapidly. Still, if there was one thing he figured out, it was that he could work with Dean. And that was enough.

Gabriel had returned home, so now Castiel's only company was his cat Meg. Her nestlings into his side when he watched TV from the couch or slept in his bed were what he looked forward to every day after work. It was simple, yes, but it filled him with a certain contentment.

With his project, when he wasn't plotting with Dean or planning alone, he was practicing French. He would rehearse saying _Bonjour_ and _Comment allez-vous? _and _Comment vous appelez-vous?_ and _Je suis désolé, mais je ne parle pas français _and those other useful phrases. They would help getting around and semi-conversing directly with the locals – there was a friend of a member of the project (or something like that; Castiel forgot) who would help them linguistically – so he wasn't that worried, but he still wished to know some of the language.

For now, life revolved around the project and his cat.

So one day when he was sitting on his couch, Meg cuddled into his side and a free hand petting her soft fur, the reality of the situation hit him. He knew what the project was, what it entailed, and that it was actually going to happen. It was the fact that he was going to do it, it was going to be real as him sitting on his couch with his cat, that he suddenly realized. He had the opportunity that would surely make his career, it was sending him to France of all places, and he was going with someone he could pretty much only work with. His hand paused on the fur, and two insistent cat eyes pressed him for more attention. Yet he remained frozen. This was really happening, and he can't screw this up.


End file.
